


D'espoirs en aurores

by RavenXavier



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Established Relationship, F/M, Family Issues, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Healthy discussions, M/M, Multi, Relationship Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 21:47:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14923418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenXavier/pseuds/RavenXavier
Summary: In the aftermath of Jean Valjean's death, both Marius and Cosette are unhappy, and wish fiercely for things to be different. Fate obliges, but in a twisted way; while they're offered more time with their loved ones, they also find themselves separated by an ocean, with no way of knowing what has become of the other.The troubling question, however, is not how they can find each other again - but rather,should they at all?As months go by and their old reality starts to feel like a dream, Marius and Cosette ponder, grow up, and eventually, have to choose.





	D'espoirs en aurores

**Author's Note:**

> If people are actually reading this, hello! I cannot believe I am posting a fic again. At this point, I rather thought it'd never happen again! But here it is, and well, I really hope you guys will like it!!!
> 
> A few things -  
> . First off, thanks so much to Katie, (Kcrabb88 on Tumblr and, If i'm not mistaken, on here as well!) for agreeing to betaread this first part for me. She's been awesome. Thank you!
> 
> . Two, the title actually makes no sense ("From Hopes to Dawns") but I liked the sonority of it, and, somehow, I still think it manages to capture the feeling i'm trying to pour into this story. 
> 
> .There ARE more ships on this fic that I've not tagged cause they're going to be very minor. Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta, of course, are very much a thing. And, since it's me, Enjolras/Grantaire IS going to be very strongly implied though I don't think It should bother people who don't ship them. 
> 
> This fic is dedicated to the platonic love of my life, Chloé.

Dusk was setting when they started to make their way back home. Marius and Cosette were alone in the carriage – a last minute decision Marius couldn’t regret, despite the awkwardness; he did not think Cosette would have been able to handle a moment more with his grandfather and his usual rude and callous words. Now that everything was done, now that Jean Valjean was buried, silence laid thick between them. The only words he’d exchanged with her since her father died had been about the funerals, and hardly anything more. Marius realized, throat tight, that for the first time since he and Cosette had reunited, he couldn’t think of a single thing he might say to make her feel even a little bit better.

Cosette was staring outside. She looked far away, her face blank, her eyes dry. The only sign of her internal turmoil was her hands; they were shaking ever so slightly on her lap. Marius let out a shaky breath, hesitated, and then, very slowly, moved his arm until his fingers rested on his wife’s. He barely had time to feel the silk of her gloves against his skin before Cosette slipped from his tender grasp. Marius’s hand hovered over emptiness for a moment too long before he brought it back against him, feeling helpless.

He knew Cosette was angry at him, and he knew she was right to be – guilt still ate at him, pervasive and overwhelming, for the length he’d gone over the past few months to keep Valjean and her apart from each other. Now that the truth had been revealed, he could not remember at all what had motivated him to be so afraid and so petty, accepting so easily that Jean Valjean could be a bad man, and pushing him always further away from his daughter, without her even being aware of what silly ploy was going on above her head. He felt sick now at the memories of consoling Cosette, distraught over her father’s polite distance, and feeling satisfied every time she forgot her pain for a little while to be happy with him instead.

What was there to do? Wait? Marius had never been good at that; he’d never been good at saying he was sorry either, too proud for it, though he had told Cosette, that night, head against her skirts, had confessed and apologized, for what seemed hours, as Cosette stood there, still holding Valjean’s letter tightly in her hand, crying silently. It hadn’t been enough then, and he did not think it’d be enough with time. It didn’t help, he supposed, that the pain he’d caused to Cosette was intimately linked to the affront he’d done to Jean Valjean.

He almost wished Valjean had had _something_ that Marius could latch upon, as he’d done with his father after his death. The thought of turning back to the law to help poor convicts had definitely run through his mind, as had turning back to religion, which he’d quite neglected over the past few years. But was it enough? Was it something Valjean would have felt honored by? When Marius conjured up the image of the old man, it wasn’t the convict he saw, nor the christian - it was the father; he could remember in painful details that morning Valjean, in a broken, harsh voice, had told the truth about his identity, and made him promise one thing - not to tell Cosette a word about this. This had been his only preoccupation, really - not Marius’s opinion of him, nor anything about them both at all: just his daughter’s happiness.

Marius knew the truth, deep down: there was no better way to honor Jean Valjean than to love Cosette, and to make her happy. Unfortunately, it seemed he was doing a very poor job at both.

He glanced at Cosette again, tried to think of something to tell her - if she could not stand his touch, maybe she could hear his words - but the carriage stopped before he could settle on what to say, and she immediately moved to open the door, graciously getting out. Marius followed, a shiver running down his spine as he looked up at his childhood’s home. Like a lot of decisions he’d made in the past year, the reasons why they’d chose to stay here escaped him now thoroughly. Surely, with his money and Cosette’s, they’d have enough to settle in a small house of their own - one with a bigger garden, perhaps, or at least a wilder one; that would please Cosette, wouldn’t it?

“Cosette,” he began, hopeful. “Do you think we could -”

“I’m tired,” Cosette cut him off, her voice still so soft, so gentle. “I think I’m merely going to retire for the evening. Please present my apologies to your grandfather.”

She still wasn’t looking at him, and did not turn back when she disappeared inside. Marius stayed frozen, merely blinking a few times to chase the tears burning the corner of his eyes. _I wish everything was different,_ he thought, suddenly desperate. _I wish I could go back in time and make it all better for you, Cosette._

* 

When she’d been very small, sleep had been a reprieve for Cosette; a way to escape her harsh reality for a few hours or so. She scarcely remembered those early years of her life, but the fear had clung to her skin years after she’d forgotten the face of the people she was staying with. Her father had saved her from abuse, but abuse had followed nonetheless, in a way even he couldn’t do much about: it had stolen the blissful darkness of her nights, and changed it into restless dreams that woke her violently. Nowadays, there were fewer of them, but mostly because it had became hard to fall asleep at all. Cosette could spend hours, some days, staring at the ceiling and waiting more or less patiently that Morpheus decide to visit.

Learning to sleep with another person had been very strange, but exceedingly beneficial, at first - near Marius, Cosette slept better, and longer. And even when she couldn’t quite so, it seemed painless to stare at Marius’s face; she’d assumed he was dreaming for both of them. It was only after the first nightmare - when Marius started to scream, that she realized that Marius suffered as she had, long ago.

He refused to speak about it, insisted he could not be happier, and Cosette couldn’t know if he was telling a lie: hadn’t she been so happy, in the convent, despite shivering in terror at night for a danger she could barely name anymore? So she had stayed quiet, and kissed Marius’s tears when he woke up with the name of another on his lips. Caressed his hair and shook with him, until their hearts beat at the same rhythm, and they managed to fall asleep, together, as always.

The first night after her father’s death, Cosette hadn’t slept at all, and could not bear to look at her husband anymore. She’d fled their bedroom, and walked aimlessly across the garden, seeking comfort and disliking instead every row of carefully planted flowers, every perfectly trimmed bushes and trees. In the early hours of morning, Marius had appeared, his face pale, his expression lost and terrified. He’d looked like a child, and anger had risen in Cosette’s chest - was she not the one who would never see her father’s soft eyes ever again?

Still, she’d taken his hand when he’d offered, let him walk her back inside, and put a jacket over her naked shoulders. Then, she’d said: “I might bother you less if we arrange for me to sleep in another room, at least for a few days.”

Marius had looked sick at the very idea but he hadn’t protested.

She couldn’t say now if this had been a mistake or not. She’d had time to reflect, certainly, to put together her thoughts again as she read and read and read again her father’s last words, his story, her story, her mother’s, so intertwined and so separate from each other. She had wept for days for all three of them, who would not be reunited on this Earth ever again, and she had prayed, until tears wouldn’t come anymore, nor prayers. Then, she had started to miss Marius, and be angry that he would not come and tell her to come sleep back with him, while fearing he would tire of waiting and she would have to confront him. It had taken her hours of worry mixed with irritation and longing for her confused mind to realize that her father had only been dead for three days, and that it was merely the second night she was apart from her husband.

It was almost midnight now, and she was alone in a guest room. Her father was buried in the ground, and would never open his arms again so that she may find refuge in them and forget all of her petty worries at once. Her savior, her protector, who had cared for her so deeply even though they share no blood - gone. And her husband, her perfect, beautiful Marius, whom she’d thought of as an extension of her own soul, their minds blissfully going in the same direction, their hearts sharing the same truth - wasn’t that Marius now gone too? Had he existed at all, the husband she thought would never keep a thing from her?

For the first time since she’d been a little girl, Cosette felt utterly alone. She couldn’t think of anything to write to her convent friends. She had barely been able to utter a world when Toussaint had embraced her earlier that day as a mother might have. But what did Cosette know? She never had had a mother to remember, and she yearnt for the woman described between her father’s words right now more than ever. There was no one to turn to, and no one to be, or so it seemed.

From across the corridor, forcing her out of her thoughts, she suddenly heard a cry. Unconsciously, she got to her feet. She knew Marius’s voice as well as her own. When she stepped into the corridor, there was nobody.

She’d been curious, when Marius’s nightmares had begun, why nobody rushed to attend to him. Mademoiselle Gillenormand had merely told her that Marius used to have nightmares as such as a very young boy, and it had always been Monsieur Gillenormand’s orders to let him alone. It’d seemed very cruel to Cosette, but she hadn’t said it out loud, for Mademoiselle Gillenormand tended to intimidate her a little bit, reminding her of the strictest nuns of the convent.

When she saw Marius turning in the bed, grasping at nothing, eyes open but still caught in his night terror, Cosette’s heart clenched in her chest. She could not bear to see him suffer like this, and couldn’t bear to be so sad at the sight, when she wanted to be mad instead. But she climbed in their bed nonetheless, caught Marius’s hand, and pressed a kiss inside of it.

“Courfeyrac” said Marius, breathless, his voice broken.

Cosette laid her head against his chest, and hold on tightly to him.

“No, darling,” she said, her own voice fragile and wavering. “It’s just me. It’s just the two of us. It’s only the two of us now.”

 _But oh,_ she thought, crushed by overwhelming sadness, _how I wish it was different, Marius. How I wish it was different for you, and that we may be happy surrounded by the ones we love._

_*_

 

Marius woke up slowly, uneasily. His limbs felt too heavy, and his head was pounding as it did still some mornings; a remnant of his old head injury, the doctor had said after Cosette had insisted they called upon him. His eyes fluttered open, and he was surprised by the light rushing into the room, almost blinding. It took him several seconds for his vision to adjust, and a few seconds more to realize that he could not recognize the ceiling above his head.

“Cosette?” He tried calling out. His throat was awfully dry.

There was a startled noise on his right. Marius turned his head with some difficulty, heart dropping in his chest as his hand wandered to the cold, empty side of the bed next to him, and then, suddenly, the sun pouring through the window was hidden away by the apparition of someone.

“God, don’t try moving yet, darling,” they said.

It was an half forgotten voice that froze Marius to the spot. It was such a familiar, beloved voice. His fingers began to shake. A warm, just as familiar hand grabbed them.

Marius blinked. Courfeyrac sat on the bed, and smiled at him shakily.

“I’m trying to think of a clever quip, and utterly failing,” he said. “You must tell me how you’re feeling at once. You’ve been moving so much last night, Joly said you might wake up soon. I hardly believed him anymore.”

When Marius dreamt of Courfeyrac, it was never like this. In his dreams, Courfeyrac stood joyful and determined to the end on top of a barricade, until suddenly he was on the ground, unmoving, eyes empty and mouth half opened. In his dreams, Marius tried to reach for him, tried to warn him, and Courfeyrac turned his head, and perhaps it was because of that he failed to avoid the bullet nesting right under his throat.

“Marius?” asked Courfeyrac, his smile fading slowly.

Sometimes - very rarely - Marius dreamt of Courfeyrac alone, in their old rooms Rue de la Verrerie. Courfeyrac sat on the couch, and did not look upset or angry, merely disappointed, as he told Marius “I thought you would join us at last; join me.” A few times, Éponine Thénardier appeared too, haunted eyes and desperate smile on her lips, to add: “You could still come, monsieur Marius, you could still come with us!” Both of them would offer their hands, expecting, hopeful, and some nights, Marius would wake up shivering and crying, and press his nose into Cosette’s soft hair with the uncomfortable knowledge that he had tried to raise his own hand to grasp their fingers.

This - this was so much more cruel than any other nightmare he had ever had since last June. He turned his head away from the vision of his friend and closed his eyes. He only had to wait, he thought. He only had to wait until he woke up. Cosette would be there, and all would be - well, not good, but -

“Marius, are you hurting?” asked Courfeyrac, sounding painfully real and worried as well. “I’ll call Joly, but you must talk to me.”

His hand carefully moved to Marius’s shoulder, his fingers brushing against Marius’s bare neck. Marius shuddered violently.

“Please,” he said, despite himself, voice low and weak. “I cannot. I cannot pretend.”

Silence first answered him; heavy, troubled. Marius hoped, for a moment, but then Courfeyrac insisted gently:

“Pretend what?”

“That you are here,” said Marius. His throat was tight. His closed eyes burnt. “That you are not -”

The word hovered on his tongue, but he couldn’t say it. When he’d first woke up, just after the barricades, it’d been frightfully easy to tell people: _Monsieur Courfeyrac is dead._ The whole ordeal had seemed far away, and Monsieur Courfeyrac suddenly a stranger, a vague memory in his brain of cheerful smiles and friendly embraces. Then, the dreams had started; and suddenly, even his beloved Cosette saying softly “Should we talk of Monsieur Courfeyrac?” upset him more than anything else. What about Courfeyrac! Courfeyrac was gone, Courfeyrac had left, what need could there be to say that name, again and again -

“Well, isn’t that rich coming from you!” exclaimed Courfeyrac, his false light-hearted tone betrayed by the utter softness of his voice. “Here I’ve been at your bedside for months, nagging at Joly constantly, half persuaded that each night would take your last breath - and you won’t look at me because you dreamt me dead!”

The word felt like a punch; without thinking, Marius turned around again, almost angry now, and moved to sit, ignoring his sudden dizziness:

“But you are!” he said, forcing himself to stare into Courfeyrac’s eyes. “I saw you fall; and now i’m condemned to see you fall every night, and I cannot indulge in - this, in what is no more than an echo, I cannot -”

“Marius, Marius,” Courfeyrac cut him, now more serious than ever. “I’m not a dream, I promise you. Look, here -” he gently grabbed Marius’s hand again, and moved it to his chest. “I am breathing, just as you are. You’ve been feverish and delirious for two months, my friend, I understand that you’re confused, but I’m alive, and you’re alive, and everything is well.”

Marius hesitated; Courfeyrac felt real under his hand, it was true. More real than he’d ever been before in his nightmares. Only the absolute certainty of his death made this utterly impossible. And yet - and _yet…_ For a brief instant, he allowed himself to believe it - his friend, his dearest friend, back from the dead, next to his bed. Soon, Cosette would come in, and she and Courfeyrac would tease him about being so convinced of being in a dream for so long, and Marius would not even be able to pretend to be offended… The thought made him more dizzy than he was already. The pounding in his head grew stronger.

“Marius?”

Courfeyrac’s voice now felt far away. There he was, already slipping from Marius again, and Marius blinked back a few tears.

“I miss you,” he said brokenly. “I miss you.”

“Lay down, darling, it’s alright, I’m not leaving,” Courfeyrac answered. “I swear to you i’m not leaving.”

Marius’s head fell on the pillows. He thought he could hear Courfeyrac call Joly, but he merely focused on the hand still grasping his, warm and comforting and, in a twisting sort of fate, the most real thing he could feel at this moment, before everything fade to black once more.

*

The sound of rain woke Cosette up, but she didn’t open her eyes until she realized the space next to her was cold and empty. Marius rarely woke up before her, and even when he did, he didn’t leave the bed first, merely waited for her to awake as well. She sat up, blinking sleepily, and immediately froze as she took in her surroundings.

She was in a room she could not recognize at all, much smaller than the one Marius and she shared. The morning light barely passed through heavy light blue curtains, reflecting upon a large mirror that stood above a little but elegant desk made of dark wood. For a moment she thought she was dreaming still and softly pinched the back of her hand, like she used to when she was little, in the convent. It was her uncle who taught her the trick, and at the time she did it a lot, merely to reassure herself she was well awake and still exceedingly happy right where she was. Right now, the short sting brought her nothing but more questions and apprehension.

“Marius?” she called out, already expecting nobody to answer.

She waited a few seconds, and then she got out of bed, on edge. Half-forgotten instincts from long ago spurt her into action, and she crossed the distance separating her from the window quickly, opening the curtains wide. There was no familiar sight either outside; merely the tiniest garden she’d ever seen, surrounded by huge walls of roses. For a brief instant, she was reminded of her old home, in the rue Plumet, and her heart clenched in her chest. There was no bench there, however, nor any tree or other flowers than the roses - but there were signs that someone had planted things in the ground. From beyond the walls, Cosette saw nothing but grey rooftops and grey clouds.

Fear and astonishment kept her still only for a moment before a wild spark of curiosity blossomed in her mind. The whole situation made no sense, especially as she recalled vividly now falling asleep with difficulty in the middle of the night, her cheek against Marius’s heart. Lacking any rational reason for her sudden change of environment, she thought she could not afford to be scared until understanding, even a little, what had happened. She turned away from the window, and eyed slowly the rest of the room, its blue wallpaper and the elegant green flowers running through it. There was an imposing wardrobe next to the bed, and a suitcase peeking from under the bed, but otherwise, the room was quite sparse. She decided she didn’t like it much; it lacked warmth.

In the wardrobe, she found old, but familiar dresses. Relief swept over her, and she rose her hand to gently touch them. Was she alone in the house? She suddenly wondered. She couldn’t possibly stay in her night clothes if she wasn’t. Most of her dresses were a bit difficult to put on on her own - the price of following the latest fashions - but at the back she found one of her most simple ones, and carefully took it out. She dressed as best as she could, peaked at the mirror, at renounced to do anything about her hair for now. If there were other people, either they were her husband and his family - in which case, they had already seen her this way - or they were the kind of people who had kidnapped her in the middle of night, and therefore would probably not care about her appearance. That last thought sent a shiver through her spine, but she curled her fingers determinedly on her dress, breathed out, and finally went through the bedroom door.

There wasn’t much to observe in the corridor; part of her hesitated to go look through the other rooms - there were three others - but from downstairs she could hear noises, and not knowing what was going on took precedence over anything else. Trying to stay as silent and quiet as possible, she walked down the stairs, moved past a narrow hallway, and pushed the door from where the noises were coming, louder now. She’d barely taken a step before the noises stopped, and the two people inside - one sitting at a long wooden table, the other carrying a trail with a plate with fruits and a cup dangerously full - looked up to her. Cosette’s heart dropped in her chest.

“You’re up early, Mademoiselle Cosette,” said Toussaint, raising her eyebrows. “And dressed already! Why, will you make breakfast on your own too soon? You and your father, I swear - no offense, Monsieur --”

Jean Valjean merely smiled vaguely, gentle and careful eyes stuck on Cosette, who pinched herself again, almost frantically, and felt her legs almost give out underneath her when she realized her father was still here, in front of her, looking very much alive.

“Papa,” she gasped, blindly grabbing the doorknob not to fall.

Her father immediately frown and rose up.

“Are you unwell?” he asked, moving towards her. “Should we call for a doctor? Toussaint, leave that trail, go find someone --”

As soon as he was near enough, Cosette couldn’t help it; she grabbed his arm, stared up to him, drank in his broad shoulders, his short, trimmed beard, the frown between his bushy eyebrows, and his grey hair, carefully brushed back, and thought - _this is how he always was, not --_ for behind her eyes she had another vision, one where her father laid pale and unmoving on a bed, a fragile smile still on his lips, his hair wild, his eyes staring at nothing. Now they were looking right at her, more worried by the minute, and Cosette couldn’t stop herself from trembling -

 _This can only be a dream,_ she thought again. _This cannot -_

“Cosette, my dear, tell me how can I help, what’s wrong?” her father asked.

 _Who cares?_ Exclaimed another, deeper, stronger voice in her mind. _Who. Cares?_

Cosette launched herself against her father’s chest, and hold him tightly.

“Papa,” she repeated, her lips quivering with too many emotions. “Papa, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I should have known better, I should have gone to you sooner, I knew you were always so keen on making things harder for yourself than they had to be, I knew - and you cannot be angry at me calling you papa, because you are, I don’t care for anything else, you are my father and I love you and - and --”

There were too many things to say. She started crying instead, as her father carefully put his arms around her, and, after a beat of hesitation, he started caressing her hair, like he used to when she was very little still and upset about anything at all, from a small animal dying to a severe nun being unfair because she’d used “a bad word”.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” her father said, gentle, though clearly confused. “Have you had a bad dream? It’s alright. Everything is alright, Cosette. You should perhaps lay down again for a while, until Toussaint comes back with the doctor -”

“No!” said Cosette, gripping him harder, feeling eight all over again, afraid that her savior might disappear the moment she looked away. “No, what if you are gone again the next time I open my eyes? I will not let you go, I refuse to let you go, I shan’t let you decide again a single thing!”

“Is this - is this about last week?” asked her father, sounding troubled. “I thought we had agreed, this man needed my help and young ladies shouldn’t have to see this… I’d like it better if you visited the beautiful parts of London before having to go through the slums...”

Cosette blinked a few times, frowned, and slowly disentangled herself from him. Her mouth was suddenly dry.

“London?” she asked weakly.

“I know you miss Paris,” her father told her gently, not understanding her question. “But you should give London a chance. We might be happy here yet.”

Something akin to horror rose through Cosette’s throat.

“What -” she began, stopped, tried again. “Where -- When did we -- London? How long have we been in London?”

Her father’s frown deepened. He raised one of his hand to put it on Cosette’s forehead.

“You’re a little warm,” he told her. “I could carry you up if needs be -”

But another thought had struck Cosette, sudden and as terrifying as any other possibilities. She’d welcomed her father’s presence without thinking of it too much, deciding on a miracle, but if this truly wasn’t a dream, if her father was really here then why wasn’t --

“Where’s Marius?” she asked.

Her father stared.

“Marius?” he repeated, at lost. “Is this one of those birds you feed…?”

Cosette paled, understanding dawning upon her - London, her father had said, her father, who was here and well, just like she remembered - London, he’d said, they were in London, like it had been planned long ago, before the barricades, before her father had discovered her feelings for Marius… If they were in London, then…

“The barricades,” she breathed out, and looked at her father wildly. “What happened during the barricades, papa? Were you - you went there, didn’t you? Tell me you did, you must have received a message, what happened?”

“The National Guard didn’t call on me,” answered her father, his voice turned soft and soothing as if she was a wild animal. “They didn’t need me, the uprising didn’t last long enough. Some the men who started it are awaiting judgement, now. Most are - well. They’ve gone with God.”

It was too much for Cosette; she fell against her father once more, this time not by choice. Her father, alive! And her husband -- she could not finish her thought. She fainted.

* 

“Why, hello there,” exclaimed a cheerful voice when Marius opened his eyes again. “You’ve given us quite a fright, Marius. Bossuet and I were theorizing for ages on all the ways you could die. Not in front of Courfeyrac, of course. He would have ended us right there, I believe, and it’d be a pity to die at a friend’s hand after surviving the National Guard.”

Joly’s tone did not match his serious look; seeing him did not feel as painful as it had for Courfeyrac, but Marius still blinked a few times, throat tight, before he decided that either this was turning to be a very long nightmare, a sick joke of his mind (behind the fog of his memories, he could remember Joly, he thought, falling abruptly as he was moving down the barricades, towards - towards--) or he had finally died.

In doubt, he asked Joly: “Am I dead?”

Joly grinned: “That’s the happy news, you’re not! You were hurt very bad, though. It’ll take time until you feel truly better. You’re going to be acquainted with this bed for a good while still.”

Marius had heard another variation of those words, months ago. The family doctor was not as familiar or happy as Joly, but his diagnostic had also sounded a bit relieved back then. Marius’s grandfather had danced and proudly claimed that of course, Marius was to be better; that impertinent boy, standing up even to death! Right after his grandfather and the king! Marius had mostly felt empty. Of course, this was all before Cosette was suddenly right here with him, coming to see him every day, chatting about everything and anything and slowly filling up Marius’s heart with life again.

Had he been injured again? Had he done something foolish, because of Valjean’s death, because of Cosette’s anger? Was he hallucinating, maybe? Perhaps Joly was not Joly, just the family doctor, back again, whom Marius imagined with a nicer, friendlier face. Perhaps Courfeyrac, earlier --

“You’ve grown pale again,” Joly said. “We’re going to have to try to keep you awake just a bit longer, though. Courfeyrac told me you were confused earlier, we need to figure out if the blow on your head was more important than Combeferre and I had envisioned.”

What to tell the doctor? _You cannot be here. What you say makes no sense, for the people you’re naming have been buried for a year. Just like you._

“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m feeling fine.”

Joly tilted his head on the side, scratching the tip of his nose thoughtfully.

“What year is it?” he asked.

“1833,” said Marius.

“Ah,” said Joly.

Marius had the definite impression he hadn’t given the right answer. Before he could argue his case, however - not that he should have to, because this _was_ 1833, of course - the door of the room opened, and Courfeyrac walked in again, smiling carefully when he saw that Marius was awake. Marius’s heart clenched painfully in his chest. He tried to look away, but he realized how little he’d looked at Courfeyrac, earlier; he looked thinner than he used to, and more tired as well. His hair was curled, but not as properly as usual, which reminded Marius of lazy Sundays when neither of them left their rooms well before the afternoon. Early on, before Marius had found Cosette again, Courfeyrac would insist they stayed in bed for breakfast, and chat cheerfully about week plans while keeping his head against Marius’s shoulder.

The memory made Marius blush; he turned his eyes away at last.

“Ah, Courfeyrac,” said Joly, fighting the heavy atmosphere that had abruptly fallen in the room as best as he could. “You might have been right about the head injury. But i’m sure it’s temporary!” he hastily added. “There have been studies about this. Combeferre knows more, no doubt.”

“Then Combeferre should see him,” suggested Courfeyrac. “He’ll be glad to have something new to study, I think he’s finished all of the Enjolrases’ books by now.”

“I’m fine,” repeated Marius, annoyed without quite knowing why, wondering why he insisted on proving his sanity to hallucinations of long dead friends.

“Pardon me, Marius, but you just told me we were in 1833,” Joly told him kindly. “Unless you’ve learnt to travel through time - and, in which case, I beg of you to give me your secret - I’m afraid your mind might have suffered through a slight traumatism.”

Perhaps it was because Joly looked so very serious, or because Marius had accidentally glanced back at Courfeyrac and met his worried eyes for a brief instant, but something uncomfortable appeared slowly in his chest, something he couldn’t quite name that was twisting his stomach in a very unpleasant way. He licked his dry lips, forced himself to breath out calmly, and didn’t have the courage to look back at either of them when he said:

“This _is_ 1833, I know it is. I don’t know who -” he breathed in, breathed out again. “I don’t know why I’m dreaming you are both here, but this is 1833, and I’m going to wake up soon. Unless i’m already awake, and hallucinating - perhaps you’re both not who I think you are, in which case I apologize. But you’re dead. You’re both dead, you’ve been for a year. You died the sixth of June 1832. I was there. I saw you - _I saw you --_ ”

He pressed his eyes tightly together, hold back his tears, and closed his hands into fists against the blanket.

“Marius,” said Courfeyrac, his voice pained, his fingers gently encircling Marius’s wrist.

“Cosette,” murmured Marius, forcing himself not to look. “I need - Cosette. Where’s my wife? I just need her. I need Cosette.”

The fingers disappeared. Marius told himself he did not miss the contact, and conjured up the image of Cosette instead; her soft hair that he knew how to braid so well now, her amused eyes, the way she grinned so charmingly and forgot to hide her bird-like laughter into her hands like other ladies did when she was very happy. He tried to avoid thinking of the paleness of her face when he’d told her the truth, her turning her back at him, again and again, over the past three days, fleeing from his touch like he might burn her with a caress, like she didn’t, couldn’t be around him anymore, because that hurt even more than having to face his dead best friend again, and if he thought too hard about it, he might break for good.

The silence lingered. Marius opened his eyes again, not sure who he wished to see in front of him. Courfeyrac was sitting near him, looking helpless. Joly was frowning. The uncomfortable feeling came back with force, insistent and pervasive. Marius felt sick.

“Cosette,” he repeated. “Where’s Cosette?”

“The woman you’re in love with?” asked Joly, glancing quickly at Courfeyrac.

“Do you know any other Cosettes!” exclaimed Marius, frustrated.

“We don’t know _any_ Cosette,” said Courfeyrac. “If she’s the girl you used to run to at night, then she’s been probably waiting for you for a long time. See, if you hadn’t been so secretive, I might have sent her a letter, to give her news of you,” he added, trying for a smile. “But I’m sure she won’t have forgotten you; handsome men have the natural merit to linger in young ladies’ hearts. I’d know.”

“No,” said Marius, his heart beating so loudly it hurt. “No, no, no, no, no. She’s here. She has to be here. I’m dreaming,” he repeated, shivering. “I have to be dreaming.”

“Alright,” said Joly, abruptly, startling both Marius and Courfeyrac. “Say you are dreaming. Why worry about your Cosette, who will be here when you wake up? It’s quite rude to ignore your friends, Monsieur, who are trying to make you feel better.”

Marius stared at him, at lost at what to say. Joly, satisfied, clapped his hands together.

“Very well,” he said. “Now, I’m going to ask you a long series of questions, but first, you’ll take some water. If you’re good through all this, we might even try to bring in the others to say hello.”

“I -” started Marius.

“Water first,” Courfeyrac cut him, and offered an amused smile to Joly. “Let’s obey the doctor’s orders.”

He leaned past Marius, whose eyes fluttered as he smelled Courfeyrac’s floral perfume, leaving a lingering taste at the back of his throat, bringing him right back to a summer night in the rooms they’d shared, Courfeyrac’s forehead on his shoulder, their hands intertwined, his warm voice murmuring: “There, see? Just be light on your feet, Marius.”

When Courfeyrac offered him a glass of water, smiling warmly, Marius’s heart skipped a beat. _I don’t want this to be a dream,_ he thought, for the first time, and drank.

*

Cosette had never asked questions. She’d always accepted things as they were, had never opposed her father in any way, even when it hurt her - even when it had meant not seeing the handsome boy of the park, even when it had meant being refused the right to call her father “papa” anymore. She figured, when she woke up once more in the same foreign bed, rain pounding harder against the window, that she could accept this as well. An odd reality where her father stood at her bedside, hovering over a doctor who spoke in words she didn’t know, casting soft and worried glances her way. For a very brief moment, she thought it might even be easy.

All those months, being a wife - she’d forgotten how easy it was to be a daughter. She stayed quiet as her father took care of her, enjoyed his warm and kind hand on her head, his thumb gently rubbing her temple. She agreed to eat the soup Toussaint had made, and her heart filled with childish joy when her father asked her if she’d like him to read her something. She hadn’t realized, until now, how much she had missed this. Oh, she’d cried for her father, long before he was even dead - for he seemed so keen on breaking their bond a little more every week they’d met, but this was more than that; she’d missed spending time with him, in a warm room, with neither party acting like they had to be a stranger to one another. She’d missed them being everything to each other, a small but strong family unit, missed being able to think she would never ever live in a reality where her father wasn’t here for her as soon as she needed him.

When her father kissed her nose, and told her to rest before he left her, Cosette realized dimly she was angry at him. Until then, all of her anger had been turned towards Marius, and herself. Now she realized that, in thinking himself so unworthy of her, Jean Valjean had taken away from her the one thing she trusted would be hers forever: the certainty of his love for her. If only he had trusted her! Marius would have never gotten those absurd ideas in his head, if Cosette had heard her father’s true story before him. He would have agreed that, no matter his past, he was Cosette’s father first, and would forever remain so. Jean Valjean would have lived with them, and he would have not gotten sick, and nobody would have had to live through the heartbreak of a separation…

What idiot, selfish people men could be! And now Cosette was here alone in a bed that wasn’t hers, in a country she didn’t know, and her father was back, but Marius was gone. What a twisted miracle it was! Her father and Toussaint gone, Cosette started to miss her husband again. She was still angry, but thinking he might have died made her feel dizzy with horror. She couldn’t imagine living a new life without him at her side. Being a daughter was so easy - but Cosette loved being a wife as well. Why should she have to chose between both?

She rose unsteadily from her bed again. In the desk under the mirror, she found some paper and ink. Hands trembling, she sat down and determinedly wrote:

_Marius,_

_I am living a very odd dream, a beautiful and terrible dream at the same time. I am in London, and my father is with me, given back from God, in perfect health. But you are gone, and I was told I am back in 1832. The thought that you might be dead terrifies me. I must hope you are here as well, in this dream, only not yet here with me. I must believe you’re alive, or else I might not survive this; please, please, write me back, and tell me you remember as well; tell me I did not imagine those months we have spent together. And if you cannot, tell me at least you’re well and healthy and happy._

 

_I will be waiting for you, as I always have,_

_Your Cosette._

 

She had begun to write their current address, rue des filles du calvaire, when she remembered suddenly that Marius might not be there. She knew nothing of this strange world; who was to say that, without her father to save him, Marius had came back to his grandfather? For a moment, she stared helplessly at her letter, hesitating, and then, she thought of her father who was alive - if Cosette’s dearest wish had been heard, if she could enjoy more time with him, then perhaps Marius’s…

She carefully crossed her first words out, and prayed that she was right to be hopeful when she wrote instead: _Chez Monsieur Courfeyrac, 16 rue de la Verrerie._

_*_

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't been on this website for so long that I don't remember how to make links. But you can find me on tumblr, at somuchbetterthanthat.tumblr.com ! I have ficlets about les mis there, under the tag "abc stories".


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